The evening flight into Burkina Faso was what’s commonly known as a “rock-polisher”: thirty or so adults strapped into a derelict-looking prop plane, part of the Burkinabe national airline’s tiny fleet, and hurled through turbulent Malian airspace to its destination. More than a few people used their sick bags, and only my characteristically iron stomach kept me from joining the group. Landing was an even more harrowing experience.
Customs, upon seeing my hastily acquired visa and poorly translated letter explaining my reason for visiting, gives me plenty of time to steady my wobbling legs in a windowless interrogation room. A stern-faced corporal stands guard, as though my 5’7”, 140-pound frame might contain a threat to anyone’s security. After a few short bouts of questioning, with my interrogators speaking broken English at me and me dredging up my high-school French to respond with no discernable results, they choose to leave me alone, for now.
After what seems like an eternity -but was more like two hours- I start to worry. Perhaps this whole venture had been a mistake. I might prefer actual fingernail pulling to the endless waiting.
The door, finally, swings open to someone new: a pretty young woman wearing civilian clothes and horn-rimmed glasses, rather than the succession of hard-faced men and women in fatigues who had greeted me before. She exchanges a few harsh words, a mix of French and Mossi, with what seemed to be the commanding officer. Suddenly, my satchel -containing my travel documents, laptop and my satellite phone- appear on the table next to me, as the newcomer walked over. Grinning and stretching out her hand, she introduces herself in accented but flawless English. “Marie Kafando, special media liaison for the Ministry of Global Affairs. My deepest apologies for the situation.”
Relieved that I won’t be spending the night in a Burkinabe prison, I follow her out the door as she continued to apologize, explaining my brief detention on “standard security procedures”. Then, in a smooth movement, she hands me a paper booklet and began to lay out my itinerary for the next few days, including a dizzying array of sites and events, most of which were unfamiliar to me even with couple days’ research on Ouagadougou. Between decades of insular socialist rule and French sanctions, there is only so much information you can find out about Burkina Faso through open-source research on a NetBook in a Senegalese internet cafe.
As we get into the waiting car -a black, mid-2000s Renault Clio- Marie turned, and asks if I have any questions. I decide bluntness is my best option.
“Will I have any opportunity to set my own schedule?”
“Of course, we want you to see our country in all its prosperity. You will have the services of a driver” -the man in the front, clearly military by his red beret, muscles and hard look, raises his hand- “and I will accompany you for the next few days while touring. I suggest attending the sites we have listed for you.”
“May I travel alone?”
“We would strongly advise against that, Mr. Meirowitz. Despite our best efforts, counterrevolutionary criminals are all too common. We couldn’t allow a visitor like yourself to be hurt in any way. Hospitality and tolerance towards guests is a core value of the Burkinabe. Your sleeping quarters at the Hotel Yahya will show this to you.”
I consider asking if such courtesy extended towards the thousands of Burkinabe journalists, activists and other “counterrevolutionaries” currently imprisoned by the government for political crimes, but decide to bite my tongue. Bluntness is one thing, recklessness is another. Even my Canadian passport will only protect me so far, and I’m not willing to risk my life to be a smartass.
After a fitful night of half-sleep on a hard mattress, the day starts with an early breakfast in the largely empty hotel dining area. Rather than serve local fare, the hotel’s cook has decided to approximate Eggs Benedict for me, using packaged baloney as ham. A local French-language paper accompanied the meal. I start to work my way through it. My spoken French, honed by a half-dozen years in Montreal, isn’t bad, but reading and writing -especially the colloquial, often antiquated writing in the paper- is more difficult.
I bring the paper with me in the car with Marie and my driver, named Thomas. “For President Sankara?” I ask.
Marie laughs. “Yes, it is quite a popular name for boys of the younger generations. Thomas is a great man, admired by the people for good reason,” she said, pointedly using the long-time President’s given name rather than an honorific title.
“Do most people address the President by ‘Thomas’?”
“Yes! While he is President, he is also just a man. He is one of us, part of the revolution as much as any of us. There will be no need for titles at all when the revolution is complete, and Thomas leads by example.”
In lieu of responding with more than a nod, I look out the window. I’ve been to strange places as a journalist, from basement raves in Mombasa to the streets out-of-time of Transnistria. The city of Ouagadougou is one of the oddest though. Outside of the main thoroughfare, the streets are narrower and livelier than I expected for a heavily planned city of nearly two million souls. Women and men mingle, on foot and bicycle. Most wear either some sort of military garb or trousers and a
faso danfani, the loose, collarless white shirt mandated by Sankara as an instrument of economic development and social equality. Some women wear skirts, but most are dressed in the same way as the men.
The buildings are mostly short, and the city clearly stretched out to the horizon. Aging minibuses and pickup trucks, often full of passengers, are the only motorized vehicles navigating the streets. Buildings, from one-story family homes to four and five-story offices and apartments, are constructed from mud brick, with the prevailing architectural style appearing to be a sort of neo-traditional Sahelian pattern, a mix of socialist planning and ancient knowledge. Boisterous murals covered many walls, depicting dramatizations of the Burkinabe struggle, from colonial times to the Revolution. Most included an image of the President, adorned with his trademark red beret, his smiling, mustachioed face beaming over the people like a stern but joyous father.
As Marie continues to provide a stream of history lessons and amusing anecdotes, we approach the central market. Trade barriers have kept the district as relevant as ever by keeping out international imports. Burkina Faso is known for its textile production in particular: I can see brightly coloured cloth among the bounty of food, art and other wares. Throngs of people mill about, haggling over prices and often arguing. Unusually for West Africa, many of the shoppers are men.
The upbeat mood though is dampened significantly by the ubiquitous presence of helmeted soldiers, along with men and women wearing pale-green trousers, sunglasses and red berets, and toting rifles and wooden cudgels. As we pass through a checkpoint near the market’s entrance, I notice them aggressively searching two women, distinctively dressed in long skirts with hijabs. I inquire about their identity.
“Volunteers from the
Comités de Défense de la Révolution,” says Marie. “For public security.”
I have read about the Committees. Modeled on the Cuban groups of the same name, and constituted at the district level, they form the bedrock of the Sankara regime’s repressive apparatus. They also provide political training for youths through the Pioneer movement, education for adults, and basic health services like vaccinations to many Burkinabe. They are, in many ways, the basic building blocks of Sankara’s idealized revolutionary society, and function as a mechanism of control along with the army, security services, state-owned firms and ruling party machinery.
After a few long moments of silence, clearly noticing my discomfort with the heavy armed presence, Marie speaks up. “None of this would be necessary, of course, in peacetime.”
I nod, but don’t speak. We return to silence.
